A Lily By Any Other Name
Lilies are probably my least favorite flower, and it's not really their fault. They are very beautiful, and have lots of marvelous poetry references about them. However, as with most things, the associations we have with things largely govern our responses to them, and right at this very moment, I can smell lilies in my hair and on my skin and it's making me feel heavy headed and ill.
The sickly sweet scent is too closely aligned with hot funeral parlors, where the room is stuffy and close with too many people, too little ventilation, and the oppressive air of grief that clings to any place where too many tears have been shed. The psychic energy of certain places (like hospitals and funeral homes) is interesting to me. I don't think it's so unlikely that buildings have memories of their own and that they carry the freight of what has transpired within their walls. It's a difficult question, though, because how do we separate out our own preconceptions and memories? Does my heart ache when I step into a funeral home and the scent of those flowers envelops me because of my own experiences with death and grieving, or is it related to the place itself? I'm not conscious of thinking about the people I've lost at those times, but scent is such a powerful trigger for memory that I'm certain it plays a part, particularly with those things we choose not to think about anymore. As our old friend Pablo Neruda says, "Love is brief: forgetting lasts so long".
Apart from our memories, even those hidden away in the locked rooms in our hearts, there is another force at work. Even places that we haven't been before, that we have no reason to fear or dislike, can cause a reaction. A sense of sadness upon entering a room, or a warning flash from deep within the most primitive parts of our brains, warning us that danger is nearby - all speak to the idea that a place can be alive. I know there are people who object strongly to this idea, and devote themselves to debunking it, but I continue to be open to the unexplained for two reasons. For one, I find it incredibly arrogant to presume that we currently have all the answers and that everything can be explained away. The history of human exploration and discovery reveals that breakthroughs can come only by questioning received wisdom and forging your own path. From this perspective, it's impossible to know which of our beliefs about the operation of the universe will seem quaint in a hundred years.
The second reason is admittedly less rational. A world in which there is nothing new to learn and no possibility of magic seems like a dry and lifeless place, not one I am excited to be part of. This doesn't mean rejecting science - if anything, current research in physics implies that all dimensions exist simultaneously, and particles may travel between them, even as they are being observed. If that isn't magic, nothing is.
Silly rambling girl - hoping that in an alternate dimension a version of herself with a more orderly mind is doing her work rather than talking nonsense.
The sickly sweet scent is too closely aligned with hot funeral parlors, where the room is stuffy and close with too many people, too little ventilation, and the oppressive air of grief that clings to any place where too many tears have been shed. The psychic energy of certain places (like hospitals and funeral homes) is interesting to me. I don't think it's so unlikely that buildings have memories of their own and that they carry the freight of what has transpired within their walls. It's a difficult question, though, because how do we separate out our own preconceptions and memories? Does my heart ache when I step into a funeral home and the scent of those flowers envelops me because of my own experiences with death and grieving, or is it related to the place itself? I'm not conscious of thinking about the people I've lost at those times, but scent is such a powerful trigger for memory that I'm certain it plays a part, particularly with those things we choose not to think about anymore. As our old friend Pablo Neruda says, "Love is brief: forgetting lasts so long".
Apart from our memories, even those hidden away in the locked rooms in our hearts, there is another force at work. Even places that we haven't been before, that we have no reason to fear or dislike, can cause a reaction. A sense of sadness upon entering a room, or a warning flash from deep within the most primitive parts of our brains, warning us that danger is nearby - all speak to the idea that a place can be alive. I know there are people who object strongly to this idea, and devote themselves to debunking it, but I continue to be open to the unexplained for two reasons. For one, I find it incredibly arrogant to presume that we currently have all the answers and that everything can be explained away. The history of human exploration and discovery reveals that breakthroughs can come only by questioning received wisdom and forging your own path. From this perspective, it's impossible to know which of our beliefs about the operation of the universe will seem quaint in a hundred years.
The second reason is admittedly less rational. A world in which there is nothing new to learn and no possibility of magic seems like a dry and lifeless place, not one I am excited to be part of. This doesn't mean rejecting science - if anything, current research in physics implies that all dimensions exist simultaneously, and particles may travel between them, even as they are being observed. If that isn't magic, nothing is.
Silly rambling girl - hoping that in an alternate dimension a version of herself with a more orderly mind is doing her work rather than talking nonsense.
posted by Maureen at
7:23 PM
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